The Days Run Away Like Wild Horses Over the Hills
Charles BukowskiThe Days Run Away Like Wild Horses Over the Hills Gönderileri
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Guilt Obsession Behind a Cloud of Rockets
genuinely traginew, dandy then, babe,
the age-old bile:
dummies stuffed with wax and
steel,
a deeper dark than any dark
we have ever
The Seminar
(...)
De Costro says the root of the thing is transferred to the tree
and the tree dies and
becomes HISTORY
and that
generally
history is pretty
disappointing, it’s easier to chop down a tree. (...)
These Mad Windows That Taste Life and Cut Me If I Go Through Them
(...)
I become quiet
I listen to their sounds—
their baseball games, their comedies, their quiz shows,
their dry kisses, their kindling safety,
their hard bodies stuffed into the walls and murdered,
and I go to the table
take my madman’s crayons
and begin drawing them on my walls
all of them—
loving, fucking, eating, shitting,
frightened of Christ, frightened of poverty,
frightened of life
they crawl my walls like roaches
and I draw suns between them
and axes and guns and towers and babies
and dogs, cats, animals, and it becomes
difficult to distinguish the animal from the
other, and my whole body sweats, stinks,
as I tremble like a liar from the truth of things,
and then I drink some water, take off my clothing and
go to bed
where I will not sleep. (...)
Poem While Looking at an Encyclopedia
(...)
I suppose they are beautiful
in their slow horror,
and at the bottom
an alligator puts his eye upon me
and we look
he and I; he breathes and hungers
on a flat dream, and so
this is the way we will be spread
across the page,—
teeth, title, poesy,
alligator heart,
as the sky falls down.
Sleeping Woman
(...)
but I know that you are a
contemporary, a modern living
work
perhaps not immortal
but we have
loved.
please continue to
snore.
Night Animal
I have never seen such an animal
except perhaps once,
but that is another story—
there it stood,
no lion
yet no dog
no deer yet deer
frozen nose
and eye, all eye gathering all the
moonlight that hung in trees;
and everywhere the people slept;
I saw bombers over Brazil,
cathedrals choked in silk,
the gray dice of Vegas,
a Van Gogh over the kitchen sink. (...)